


wasteland, baby

by swimthewholeriogrande



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M, Minor Violence, Past Child Abuse, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 20:17:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18213119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimthewholeriogrande/pseuds/swimthewholeriogrande
Summary: i'm in love, I'm in love with you





	wasteland, baby

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hozier's incredible Wasteland, Baby!  
> Please comment if you enjoy, thanks for reading!

It was over and now it's not.

And Jake's truly, honestly, not sure how he got here. Because he's thirty-seven, okay, he's a detective in the NYPD, he's married and talking about having a baby, he's thirty-seven years old and yet he doesn't feel a day over twelve. He's thirty-seven years old but now it's just like how it used to be, how his life used to be so long ago. Roger Peralta has him on the floor snuffling the dust through a swollen nose; he hand that broke his finger in fourth grade is hanging still-hot at his father's side. 

Jake is on his knees and elbows, the curve of his spine shivering, mostly out of shock. He's curled into himself on the living room floor of his mother's condo, where his dad has just moved in, where his dad has just made his mom so happy by getting back together with her. And Jake is a snarky little shit that couldn't keep his mouth shut, evidently. 

Roger Peralta is breathing so heavily that Jake thinks he's about to sneeze. Instead his dad growls, "You won't tell anyone about a little tap like that, will you?" and Jake is twelve years old, so small, fingers splayed wide on the carpet. 

Jake is thirty-seven years old. "No, I won't." he answers, a voice from the past.

He tells himself that his dad was drunk; that even if he hadn't been, it really had only been a little tap, and Amy doesn't even notice his nose is a bit swollen so it really isn't that bad. He's handled enough abuse cases to know that most victims try denial, but he also knows that it won't ever happen again. If it does, he will handle it, because he is an adult and his dad is an adult and they can deal with this in an adult way. Jake won't go crying to his mom or to Amy. He'll tell his dad enough, or even take a swing himself.

But when it does happen again, his dad isn't drunk, and this time his wedding ring - him and Jake's mom have started wearing them again - cuts Jake's lip. Jake's body jerks and relaxes in an instant against the kitchen counter, like he'd been waiting for the pressure to build so it could release. His mouth tastes like iron and coffee. He spits into his hand and it's a funny milky red, diluted with his saliva. 

This time Roger says nothing. Jake apologises for talking to him like that; then he goes to the bathroom to blot his bleeding mouth with toilet paper before he goes back to the dinner table with his mom and Amy. A weekly tradition, now. 

Jake doesn't notice the escalation as it happens over several months until Amy starts to ask how he's getting hurt so much on the job, why no one else on the 99 remembers it happening. The lies slip off his tongue like dead leaves; Jake has moments where he thinks he'll choke on them. Next time, he thinks, I'll knock dad's head off, and see how he likes it - but then he never does. 

It still does not reach a level where Jake fears for his life like he did when he was nine, the day he stood with his back to the stairs and his dad planted two hands and his shoulders and just - pushed. And Jake skinned his hands grabbing the banisters and thought, what is mom gonna say when she comes home and I'm at the bottom of the stairs? No, Jake doesn't think he'll die this time. He just doesn't think he'll have the highest quality of life, is all. 

The first time his dad draws real blood is Thanksgiving, when Jake jostles his shoulder rather roughly - accidentally to his conscious mind, but perhaps with malice in his subconscious - and his dad grabs the hair at the back of his head and smashes his face into the wall. Jake feels the paint crack and scratch; his nose gives like a wishbone his father has pulled apart, and for the first time he lets out a sound, a soft rasp of "Dad?" He is thirty-seven, but he's twelve years old.

"What a fucking failure." Roger says, clear and cold. "You haven't changed a bit. Still the same stupid kid you've always been."

There's blood streaming down onto his shirt, dyeing the white collar Amy had made him wear. You look so smart, she'd whispered to him at the table, guess you scrub up pretty well, huh? And now she feels so far away through the wall. 

Jake doesn't meet his dad's eyes. "Don't hit Mom," is all he tells Roger, voice weak, "just don't do this shit to Mom, okay?"

"I don't hit your mother." Roger almost sounds shocked. "I'm not a wifebeater, Jesus. I just discipline you, because you need it, don't you?"

Jake doesn't answer and that's not good enough, because his dad slams his back into the wall, one rough hand that threw Jake's baseball for him around Jake's throat. He feels the rings of cartilage in his neck compress, squeezing and kneading his oesophagus, and his eyes roll back until all he can see is the red blackness of the inside of his skull. Darker than anything.

"Don't you?" Roger grinds out, pressing harder, and Jake wheezes out a yes and there is a shattering to their left - both of their heads turn, Jake's with great difficulty, and his dad lets go of him like Jake's throat is burning his hand. Amy Santiago is standing in the doorway with a casserole dish in pieces at her feet; Jake sees her face and has never been more ashamed.

He cringes away, closing his eyes, as Amy pulls her gun and orders Roger Peralta to his knees.

His mother cries. For a long time. She's a tangle of guilt for not noticing when he was younger and not noticing now; Jake can't comfort her with his dinner napkin pressed to the blood flow at his nose, so they both sit and the turkey goes cold as Amy calls a squad car to pick up Roger for aggravated assault. The whole time, his wife's face has been frighteningly smooth, even when Jake's mom raged and screamed at his dad. Jake is sure Amy must hate him - a grown man, a police officer, letting his own dad knock him around like a little kid.

"Hey." Amy's hands suddenly replace his own at his nose and he looks up quickly. His mum is gone. His dad must be too. Amy is finally soft again. "Jake. Look at me."

He's shaking. He has been for a while. He can't say a word. Amy puts the bloody cloth down and cups his cheek. "You're in shock." she says, very gently. "Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

Jake follows her to the bathroom like a lamb, like a dog, like a twelve year old. She runs the tap until it's of agreeable warmth and then helps him clean the dried itchy brown-red blood off his chin and neck, where it has stained so far beneath his skin that he can feel it clogging his painful throat. When he looks in the mirror, there is a handprint bruising on his neck, finger stretching almost all the way around, and dark bruises spreading under his eyes. He has already reset his nose; there's nothing else to do.

He's crying. Amy presses herself against him, fiercely protective, her body a warm live shield. "He'll never be anywhere near you again," she promises. "He'll go away for a long, long time. Never again."

Jake knows she has a million questions, but that's all he wants to hear. He presses a kiss to her temple and lets her hold him like a child.

Twelve years old and thirty seven years old in the same trap, but this time around, someone loves him enough to let him go.


End file.
